Vertigo
by The Nagisa Thesis
Summary: Ladies and gents, welcome to the twilight zone. Features slut!Draco and an unlikely candidate for a shag-buddy. Definate slash, boys and goyles, read at your own risk. Ignore poor formatting too--am too lazy to fix and re-upload. ;)


A/N: Wow. This is weird. Funny and bizarrely cute when it shouldn't be, and very weird. I was trying to write your typical slut!Draco, no-strings- attached sex sort of moment, but I just got attacked by a plotbunny and ran with it. Vicious little bastards, they are. So yes. I know this has no chance in all holy HELL of happening in the canon, but in my warped little mind, some things CAN transcend even age-old family feuds. A good shag is one of those things. So enjoy my bizarre Draco/MysteryLoveMachine fic. I know I enjoyed writing it. Flames will be used to make s'mores, as I love those things dearly.  
  
Disclaimer: Alas, I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters pertaining to it. That privilege belongs to Ms. J. K. Rowling, a Goddess in her own right. Bless 'er.  
  
Note to self: Draco likes sex. Use this to advantage.  
  
  
  
Vertigo  
  
  
  
I can't even begin to explain myself. I can't really remember how I got here, or what in the hell I was thinking; all I knew was that I was sated. Blissfully so. And that was all that really mattered to me: Frustration blindly swept under the rug by a perfect 10 minutes in heaven-enough to last a good few hours. It didn't really matter who, or when, or where, or even how. As long as I was pinned-or pinning, as the case may be-I was a pinnacle of manhood. I was sexual, sensual, and arousal, all in one tight, damn fine little package.  
  
Sometimes, it feels good to be me. Other times, it's pure, unadulterated bliss. This was one of those special, rare times where it was like an opiate-emotionally scarring, but still worth the price.  
  
I let a heavy sigh rumble from my chest and turn lazily to look at my bedmate. Or rather, the lumpy outline of my bedmate. The actual "mate" in question is huddled under the covers, their back turned to me, muttering something about the definite evils of Smirnoff and how they were going to be a good, Merlin-fearing, devout practitioner of magic if only they could wake up, and this whole situation would be just some bizarre, hateful dream.  
  
I, of course, am a shit disturber. If I see someone angsting over a situation, I must compulsively make their day a little more stressful; and no force on earth could stop me from doing so, not even the exhausted aftermath of a sexual revelation. Well, except for one with Potter. A romp in the sack with HIM is like an entire Quidditch season, packed into one glorious half hour. After Potter, I tend to need a week in sickbay and some anti-depressants. 'Boy is huge. It makes me sick, the natural born luck of others.  
  
As I was saying, I have never been one to let a lingering suffering slide. Coyly, I roll over closer to my companion, trying to sigh innocently, watching as the bundle under the blankets stiffens like one hit by a petrificus totalus.  
  
I'm cruel.  
  
"Damn, that was satisfying." I sigh in elation, nuzzling the back of my antisocial bedfellow, "Was if good for you?  
  
There is a sudden violent, spastic shudder beneath me, and I smile twistedly, knowing my words are licking fresh wounds with a hot, bothersome tongue that simply-  
  
.Got off track there, for a second.  
  
".. Never... be clean... again.." Comes the weak and tortured reply. I mock-pout and try to remove the covers, but the occupant is obstinately set on keeping their little nest where it was. With a sigh, I settle for snaking my arm around their slim, warm torso, and pulling their back against my gloriously bare front. I feel more shuddering, but they are obviously too terrified to move.  
  
"That's not what you said when I was ravishing you senseless against in the Quidditch stands an hour ago." I purr coyly, nuzzling them some more while absent-mindedly seeking out their neck from under the thin sheets, delivering a few sensuous nips to the tender, cotton-covered skin, "Frankly, you were smashing. Well worth missing the Quidditch Cup after- party for."  
  
"Your house LOST." They pointedly tell me, somewhat muffled by the covers. I sigh in response and nuzzle them more forcefully.  
  
"A minor detail!" I crow drowsily, "But seriously, lovely, come out of there. I feel like I'm having a post-sex snuggle with a mummy."  
  
There is another violent shudder, followed by a groan that sounds suspiciously like "sex" being spat out venomously as if by an elderly, over- zealous nun.  
  
"Yes," I grumble irritably, "sex. Not "making love" or any of that balderdash-sex. A one time, casual thing with no emotional attachment, so you might as well take advantage of the situation."  
  
There is a slight pause from my lover, and suddenly a rustle as they turn themselves in my arms so that they're facing me. Another brief scuffle, and I see a small hole has been made in the top of the covers, and there they are, peeking out with all the audacity of a frightened rabbit. I smile charmingly down at them, and they shudder yet again.  
  
"See, sweets?" I drawl, "It isn't that bad. Might I compliment you on your performance again-it suddenly dawns on me as to why Potter keeps you around."  
  
I am rewarded with a fierce glare, and chuckle inanely to myself. The glare, however, is soon replaced with an expression of morbid fascination.  
  
"You weren't that horrible yourself, surprisingly," they inform me, sounding somewhat dumbfounded at this revelation, "I mean.. That. THING you did. With the tongue and... Oi.."  
  
They trail off in a groan and I can see a violent flush touch their cheeks before they nuzzle back down into the covers. I grin again to myself, pleased at this critique.  
  
"Why thank you," I answer smugly, "I have always been told I have great talent with my mouth. If you like, I could teach you how to do that, too. It may come in handy someday, you know."  
  
There is a loud and hurried "NOOOOOOO.." from under the covers, and I frown in reflex, but shrug it off my shoulders. I am feeling far too spent and sedated to engage in another bickering argument tonight.  
  
"Whatever," I quip drowsily, pulling them closer to my chest and snuggling down into the bed, taking sudden notice of how light and airy the gentle cotton sheets feel against my warm, flushed skin, "Just remember I wont be so civil in the morning, so don't get used to my prepositions. I'm going to sleep now."  
  
Another unmeasured silence passes by, before suddenly, the great sea parts, and from under the covers emerges a body, blushing in violent crimson so that his already profound freckles stand out even more noticeably. He lines his long, lean body up against mine and drowsily drapes an arm possessively around my waist. I smile lazily at him, half in victory, half in amusement at the candid state of bed-headed disarray his short, vermilion hair is in, and earn a half-hearted frown in response. He nuzzles his face into my chest, his warm breaths coming out slow and shallow, and I think for a moment he's fallen asleep, before his voice comes again, gravelly and rumbling from deep in his chest.  
  
".Malfoy?"  
  
I smile at his formal hatred, allowing myself an unintelligible "Mmm?" and begin stroke his tousled hair good-naturedly with my free hand. It's oddly soft and natural, like the cotton sheets that cling limply to my sweaty body.  
  
".You're still a slimy git."  
  
I grin wryly at this, trying not to shake with my suppressed chuckle, not wanting to stir him too much so that he'd revert back into his withdrawn, "Oh-my-GOD-I-can't-believe-I-just-shagged-MALFOY-and-liked-it!" state. Instead, I just bend down slightly so that my nose is buried in his vibrant red mess of hair, smiling.  
  
"I know, I know," I mumble against his forehead, and place a light kiss against his temple, "Goodnight, Weasel."  
  
There is an audible grumble at this nickname as he burrows in closer to me, letting sleep overtake him.  
  
"Same to you, you insufferable prat." He mutters, before yawning and giving in to the opiate that is this bizarre twist of fate. I smile again to myself-a habit I find most unbecoming of me, and promise to rectify first thing in the morning-and close my eyes.  
  
Some people never change. Others change with time, but refuse to let anybody know, for the sake of keeping up appearances.  
  
We're one and the same, he and I. Both so caught up in our own little acts that we don't bother to analyze old situations with newfound wisdom.  
  
As I tumble into a footloose state of colorful oblivion that is sleep, I hear him whimper softly against my chest, dreams already starting to form in his empty little head. I choke back another habitual smile.  
  
Like I said-some people never change. 


End file.
